Nemesis (27 page)

They followed him silently through the trees for several minutes, heard him checking in with the sniper team leader as they grew closer. The command center was well hidden from the cabin, and was nothing more than piles of communication equipment and weapons, and a half-dozen agents in combat gear. Everyone remained silent. The five of them were each handed H&Ks, vests, and binoculars. They checked their weapons and magazines, shrugged on their vests, and covered them with dark blue FBI jackets. The team took them to the best nearby vantage point. Sherlock forgot the heavy humid heat and concentrated on the cabin in front of her in the distance. It was old, the wood weathered nearly black over the decades, but in good repair. It sat thirty feet from the lake and a dock that stretched out about twenty feet from the shore, where a single outboard bobbed easily in the gentle wind. The cabin was long and narrow, with a single window at the front that spanned nearly the entire main room. They’d made no effort to hide what was inside. Through the binoculars, she saw Marie Claire sitting in a faded old armchair, her three children close beside her. Two girls, about five and seven, were reading, and the third child, a small boy, was sleeping on a blanket beside his mother, his cheek cushioned on his hand. She saw the remains of their lunch on a nearby table. Marie Claire looked to be in her mid-thirties, her hair glossy black, twisted in a braid at the back of her head. She wore jeans and a white blouse that looked worse for wear. Sherlock couldn’t see her face clearly from this distance, but she knew she had to be ready to close down, beyond tired from the fear she’d had to live with for four days, fear for herself and for her children.

Sherlock panned over to the three armed men. Two of them were very young, with short beards—stubble, really. Had they shaved off their beards for their flight to the United States? The third man was older, perhaps forty, smooth-skinned. He wore aviator glasses. They were dressed casually in dark T-shirts, faded jeans, and boots. All had AK-47s strapped to their chests, pistols hooked to their belts. Sherlock would bet her new pair of Nikes that the young ones wore KA-BARs strapped to their ankles. They looked tough, businesslike, even as they argued with one another. About what?

Agent Tyson handed her an earpiece, and then she heard them speaking, partly in British English. They were arguing, but she couldn’t make out what it was all about with the Arabic mixed in. The older man, obviously their leader, pulled out a cell phone and dialed. He listened, then punched off, shook his head at the other two.

Sherlock turned to see Kelly conferring with three members of the Boston tactical team. One of them asked Cal a question, nodded at his response. Kelly met her eyes and nodded. She’d decided it was time to end it.

One of the agents cursed. He turned, whispered, “The leader has gone into the cabin.” He said into his comm, “Hold, hold.”

Sherlock turned her binoculars back to the cabin. The leader was leaning over Marie Claire, speaking to her, gesticulating with his hands.

She saw the young boy leap up, push himself against the man’s legs. The man leaned down and shoved him away. The little boy began to cry. Marie Claire said something to the man, drew the little boy to her.

The man raised his fist, lowered it, turned, and left the cabin.

Good, the three were outside again, but they were clustered right in front of the glass window, arguing again.

Move, move, move.
It was her silent chant.

One of the young men lit up a cigarette, tossed the match to the ground. The match flame didn’t die, it smoldered against a piece of wadded-up paper, then burst into flames.

The leader yelled something, gestured for the man to put the flame out. As one of the young men moved away from the front window, Kelly whispered, “Bring him down. Execute!” Not even a second and the man was down, blood blooming on his chest.

The two targets fired blindly into the woods and juked and dodged toward the trees, away from the cabin. Two more sniper shots rang out, struck both men center mass. They dropped where they stood. Two more shots followed quickly.

It was over. Like that, it was over. Sherlock calmed her racing heart. No one of the team was hurt, and the Conklins were safe.

Kelly ran into the clearing with the tactical team, checked on each of the targets. When Sherlock joined her, she nodded toward the cabin. They both dropped their weapons and walked inside.

Sherlock had never before seen a face as pale as Marie Claire’s. She’d pulled all three children tightly against her, covering their heads with her arms. Sherlock saw she hadn’t pulled them under the table because her ankles were tied to the chair.

She met Sherlock’s eyes. “We’re FBI, Mrs. Conklin. It’s over.” Sherlock smiled at this woman who’d lived through so much. She said again, “All of this is over. Those men are all dead. You and your children are safe now.”

Marie Claire stared at the two women. She said in heavily accented English, “Those shots—those horrible men are really dead?”

“Yes,” Kelly said. “I’m Agent Kelly Giusti and this is Agent Sherlock.”

Sherlock knelt beside Mrs. Conklin, slid a knife through the ropes around her ankles. She leaned back on her heels. “We’ll take you all out of here to a safe place as soon as we can. Everything will be all right now.” She said that for the children to hear, but of course nothing would be right. Their father was dead. Sherlock guessed Mrs. Conklin already knew that.

Marie Claire nodded, soothed her children. The older girl, the image of her mother, wiped her nose and stared at the two women. “How did you find us?” Her English came naturally to her, thanks to her father, thanks to Nasim.

Kelly patted her shoulder. “We worked hard to locate this cabin. We wanted to find you very much.”

The younger girl had Nasim’s eyes, Sherlock saw, and felt her throat clog. Marie Claire said, “My babies were so frightened. I could not help them.” She took the little girl’s hand. “All of us are very dirty. Those men didn’t let us bathe, even though there is a bathroom.”

Marie Claire raised her eyes to Sherlock’s face. “Nasim,” she said. “My husband. Where is he? I spoke to him only once. That was two days ago, Thursday night. Then nothing. Where is he?”

Sherlock couldn’t say it aloud, not in front of the children, who were all staring at her. “We will speak of Nasim later, all right, Marie Claire? First, we want to make certain you and your children are safe.”

She knew, of course, she knew. Sherlock nodded slowly, turned to smile at each of the children. “My name’s Sherlock and this is Kelly. And you are?”

“I’m Gabrielle.”

“I’m Lexie.”

The little boy licked his lips, looked at his mother, and whispered, “I’m Thomas. I want to go to the bathroom,” then pressed himself tightly against his mother’s leg.

“Yes,” Marie Claire said, “all of us will go to the bathroom, then we will leave this place.” And she clapped her hands and herded the children out of the living room. At the door, she turned back to them, said quietly, “Thank you for coming.” They watched her face tighten. “Nasim would thank you, too.”

Kelly felt tears behind her eyes, swallowed. “I don’t want to tell her, Sherlock, I really don’t.”

Sherlock drew in a deep breath. “We will tell her that Nasim was a very brave man, he sacrificed himself to save them, he led us to them. That is what we will tell her.”

NEW YORK CITY

Saturday, early evening

A
s Pip drove the SUV into the garage beneath 26 Federal Plaza, Cal said, “After this press conference it seems to me we’re done here. You ready to go home, Sherlock?”

Sherlock saw Nasim’s face as he’d died in her arms, felt the familiar burn of tears. She didn’t think she’d ever accept the unfairness of it all. She said, “I’m more than ready.”

Kelly waited for Pip to pull into a parking space and turn off the engine. “The press conference is happening in about”—she looked down at her watch—“half an hour. Director Comey will be there himself. It’s a big deal, puts the spotlight square on the FBI. This will be the first time the American people will hear about who Nasim really was and about how he was murdered by the terrorists, and how we managed to save his family. Afterward, well, sorry, guys, but neither of you is leaving. The change of plans came from on high.”

She patted Sherlock’s hand. “You’ll be front and center, the face of the FBI on this one, the agent who fought off this terrorist attack, America’s heroine. I wouldn’t be surprised if they trot out Father Joseph Reilly and Romeo Rodriguez, too. So take a few minutes and think about what you’re going to say.” She raised her hand when Sherlock shook her head, started to open her mouth. “Director Comey doesn’t want you to leave New York. He’s very proud of you, proud you’re an FBI agent, and that means after the press conference, he’s not about to let anything happen to you. You’ve already been shot at and threatened by Jamil, on orders from his terrorist bosses. That means you’ll be staying close to me until it’s over, or until we have assurances you’re not a target.” She looked at Cal, and couldn’t prevent a small smile. “As for you, Mr. Hotshot, you’ll be staying on as her bodyguard. I’ve got to say you’ve come in pretty handy so far. You up for it?”

Exactly a half-hour later, Special Agent Lacey Sherlock stood next to Director Comey on the dais set up outside for the press conference. They had a full media turnout.

Director Comey looked over the microphone at the sea of media faces. In his usual professional and organized way, he walked everyone step-by-step through each FBI action following the attacks at JFK and St. Patrick’s Cathedral. He told them of the death of Nasim Conklin while in FBI custody, his murder enabled by Nasim himself, who sacrificed himself up in an attempt to save his family, and the shooting and capture of his murderer, Jamil Nazari, and he explained the reason for the delay in announcing his death—the FBI had been following critical leads obtained from Nasim Conklin by Agent Sherlock prior to his death.

Director Comey ended with their successes—the death of three terrorists holding Nasim Conklin’s family in Connecticut and the family’s safe rescue.

He thanked the New York Field Office, the Boston Field Office, and the New York Joint Antiterrorism Task Force for their efforts thus far, explained they would continue to pursue other members of the terrorist group but could not identify them definitively at this time. He did not refer to the Strategist specifically; that was to be kept close for now. He answered a number of the media’s questions, clarifying what he could but giving away no other details of the investigation. He gave a rueful smile. “I don’t pretend to believe you came here to listen to me.” He turned to Sherlock, smiled at her, shook her hand, said to the sea of faces, “I’d like to introduce Special Agent Lacey Sherlock. The Bureau is very grateful to her for her quick actions at JFK on Wednesday afternoon, which saved many lives, and for being instrumental in securing the safe recovery of the Conklin family in Connecticut earlier today.” He shook her hand and held it, smiling widely as dozens of camera flashes went off. He leaned down, whispered, “You’re the face of the FBI. Get used to it. Smile for the world.”

Sherlock stepped to the microphone. The sudden silence was unnerving after the constant buzz of voices from the overflowing plaza. She looked out toward a dozen vans hunkered up as close as they could park, paused when she recognized some of the media faces familiar from the nightly news. All of them were staring at her, restraining themselves, but obviously chomping at the bit to yell out their questions and, they hoped, get the sound bite of the day.

Sherlock wished Dillon were standing beside her, but he wasn’t; she was on her own. She pulled the microphone close and said clearly, “I want to emphasize that Nasim Conklin was not a terrorist. He was a man forced by terrorists holding his family to do what he did. I don’t know if I could have stopped him if not for his hesitation brought by the horror he felt at what he was being made to do. In the end, he helped us free his family.” She couldn’t help it, she blinked away tears. She was unaware that her hands, resting on the dais, were clenched into fists. “Let me say that the terrorists who did this to him, the terrorists who would not have hesitated to murder his family, would have succeeded were it not for the men and women here today who rescued them.” She called out the names of Agent Kelly Giusti and Agent Chris Tyson of the Boston Field Office, nodded to them.

She raised her voice. “I hope the people behind this are watching, because they should know we will find them, and we will bring them to justice.”

She stepped back. Director Comey looked at his watch, looked back at the large group of people, and said, “We have a few minutes for questions.”

Martin Chivers from
The New York Times
had his own microphone and didn’t have to yell. His deep voice drowned out the other voices. “Can you tell us anything more about who these terrorists are, what group is behind the attempted bombing of Saint Patrick’s?”